Sherlock's Surrender
by Spike82
Summary: An alternate reality of four lives intertwined. A tale of abuse and out of control minds. John is sacrificed for Sherlock, just as Sebastion is for Jim but can love be found? Can there be a happy ending when your mind goes against you?
1. Chapter 1

Thanks to the great Pantherlily for her help. Without her this story would probably still be a huge mess.

Since the very first moment that John Watson, former army doctor, and former soldier for the Queen and the Country, met Sherlock Holmes, he knew that life like he knew it before was over.

Not that he had much of a life since the Army discharged him. He lived in a cheap motel outside the City, didn't talk with his sister or family, and just lived with his nightmares, night and day. That same family that never understood why he choose the army in the first place.

The same family that kicked him out at fourteen because he dared not to be the son his father wanted.

The army was more a family to John than his biological one ever was, and now he had lost that too. He really didn't have any place to go until the moment he met an old friend.

He hadn't see Mike since the University and the man had changed a lot, but John thought bitterly than he too was changed, and not for the best.

The scars he was wearing outside were ugly, but nothing compared to the scars e knew he was wearing on his soul and on his mind.

Mike wasn't having the best of the days. Only a few hours earlier he witnessed the last fight between Sherlock Holmes, one of the most brilliant men ever born, and his brother. If only Mycroft was able to make Sherlock see that all the stalking and the tough love was exactly that, the only way the older Holmes know how to show love for his little brother.

But too many years of building walls between themselves probably damned for good any attempt to have a normal relationship with each other.

Mike knew Mycroft well enough to know that he would have always looked over Sherlock, but he also knew that he was going to do that from the shadow, as always. And if Sherlock hated something in his life was the darkness, that terrible place that threatened his mind since the beginning, since the moment the little boy of three realised that other children his age weren't supposed to know how to read and write in two different languages.

Mycroft and Sherlock always were different from every other children. But at least when they were young they had each other.

Now they both were alone, with their demons and their too brilliant minds that always worked too fast and too much.

Mike wasn't really sure what happened between the two brothers to sever the bond they shared since the first moment Mycroft met his little brother. His mother was the nanny in the Holmes house for years, and that was the only reason he met the brothers in the first place. And even if Sherlock and Mycroft never really had any friends, Mike liked to think about himself as the closer thing to a friend for both of them.

People could be cruel, and always was with Sherlock. Since he was a child he knew the worse of the human race. A constant punishment because he dared to be different and to show that with pride.

That's what his mother always said about Sherlock Holmes, and Mike knew that was the truth.

Sherlock never had a real friend for himself. Never knew what it means to be free to let go and trust someone enough to be sure that someone could be there for him. No one ever cared for him because he wanted and not because he had to.

While Mike was lost in his dark thought a man slowly started to slowly approach. A man he knew well. Someone who could be the one to give Sherlock Holmes what he never had before.

"John, John Watson? It me, Mike, from the university!"

John was walking alone, trying to forget about his therapist and how much she didn't understand anything about him, but after all, John learned a long time ago to hide in plain sight. He didn't even see the guy sat on the bench. But it was clear that the guy recognised him, and well.

He didn't want to talk, he didn't even care that life in London kept going on when he was in Afghanistan.

The two men sat together. John with a cup of coffee protecting him from the world, and Mike talking his ears off, like always.

"When did you come back? Last time I heard about you, you were at war getting shot, what happened?"

John looked at Mike for a moment, he never was one to be called brilliant. But he was a good guy, one of the few friends he ever had in his life, so John decided not to be harsh or mean with him. In truth to behave like that wasn't really part of him. John always was calm and quiet, with a temper yes, but never cruel, not even after the war.

"I got shot!"

Mike really looked at John for the first time after that. He saw his right hand grasp a silver cane, but above all he saw for the first time the way John's shoulder was almost frozen.

"What happened John? What really happened?"

Mike knew him all too well, even after so long. He knew John was ready to give him the version he probably already gave to the army, and probably to his therapist too, because it was obvious by his face that John was forced to see one.

"Nothing happened to me Mike. I'm here, I'm alive. I had my companions in arms blood all over myself because we were ambushed somewhere in the desert. I saw my best friend die because of a bullet on his neck. I couldn't do anything for any of them because a sniper shot me on the leg and on the shoulder, but nothing happened to me Mike. No one had to go to Harry to tell her that her only brother was dead. No one had to knock on my parents house and see that they don't give a shit about me. I'm ok Mike. I really am."

Gone was the careless and happy bloke who could spend his days working in a book shop and his nights in his room, to study to always be the best student in his class, to keep the grant and be able to stay in the Medical school. In his place was this bitter young man, but Mike was able to see that the fire didn't leave John's eyes.

It was in that moment that Mike decided to do the unthinkable. To put together John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

In his gut he knew that was the right thing. For both of them, even if they didn't know each other yet.

Sherlock was in the morgue, as usual lately. The suicide cases was throwing London in a full panic attack, and that was stupid, above all because it was beyond obvious that the four people were killed. Or at least it was obvious for him.

He was frustrated, DI Lestrade was a simple man, with a simple life, a wife that was obviously cheating on him, and a team full of incompetents. But at least he was smart enough to know when to ask for help.

And help was exactly what Lestrade needed right now. Help to understand why four very different people committed strange suicides in parts of London they weren't supposed to be. Help to understand why everything was screaming to his senses that Sherlock Holmes, the strangest and more complicated man he ever met in his life was right, that he was handling murders and not suicides, and why he was sure that the worse had yet to come.

Sherlock knew without raising his gaze that Lestrade was there, but for once his attention wasn't on his self imposed role and profession, but for Mike. He didn't expect to see him again so soon. Only a few hours earlier he casually met Sherlock in front of his new apartment in 221B Baker street, the apartment he didn't want his brother to know about, not so soon at least, but probably that was too much to hope for. And now he was again, and with a guest.

The new man had all his attention, and that was strange. It never happened to Sherlock to be so focused on someone in his whole life. Not even his mother kept his attention so totally, not even when he was a child and needed her.

"When this morning I told you I was looking for a flatmate, I didn't give you permission to go hunting."

Lestrade was watching the exchange from the door. The cheap smell of his second in command perfume was starting to give Sherlock a migraine, but it wasn't important, not now at least.

"This is John Watson. Doctor John Watson actually. He's an old friend of mine…"

Sherlock looked at the man, studying him like if he was the most interesting thing in the whole universe. And John surprised him. He knew. John Watson knew what Sherlock was doing, and never, not even for a second he casted down his gaze or showed uneasiness. He was surprised of course, but not in the wrong way, not in the way that usually leaded to harsh snaps and words so full of poison that Sherlock knew well.

"Hey freak. Stop scaring your friend's friend away. It's not like he'll ever going to be your flatmate if he has a brain…"

John's head was immediately focused on the woman who was still talking, totally oblivious of what was happening.

"I should thank God I'm not going to be your flatmate, whoever you are. If there is something I can't stand is people ready to jump in business even when it's pretty sure no one wants to hear their opinion!"

A strange silence fell in the room. Everyone was shocked for a reason or another.

Sherlock never had someone defend without even knowing him and in truth no one in the room ever heard someone defend Sherlock either.

The only one who was sporting a small smirk was Mike. He knew he was doing the right thing letting those two men meet.

"Follow me!"

Sherlock never was really sure why he said that. Never was sure, not even after many years, about what pushed him to walk away with a perfect stranger starting what was going to be a lifelong bond.

The last thing he heard before walking away from the morgue was Lestrade's voice calling him back, asking him clues about the cases and the reason he was summoned there in the first place. But all he got as an answer was a laconic "later".

The only noise in the long corridor was the one made by John's cane. He was trying to keep up with the man's speed, but it was hard, and his leg started to hurt. Fuck his therapist and her theory of the psychosomatic pain.

"Can you slow down?"

He really didn't want to ask, to show any more weakness than strictly necessary to this stranger, but they were close to the stairs now, and John couldn't possibly keep running behind someone for maybe five floors or more.

Strangely enough Sherlock almost stopped. Anyone would have had a stroke if he saw him doing that, because everyone knew that Sherlock Holmes never waits for others.

"We'll catch a cab!"

Sherlock's voice was warm, elegant, like everything else in him, but what really bewitched John since the first moment were his eyes. Those eyes were able to make John feel naked, totally exposed and for some strange reason, he was ok with that.

He saw enough in his years in the army to know that the man in front of him knew the real meaning of betrayal, and if to be an open book for him was the way to make him see he was real, then he was ready to pay the price, and God's only knew why.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John didn't get the question in the first time.

"Excuse me?"

"Where did you get shot? Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan… But how…"

John knew for sure that Mike didn't have time to talk to this man about his past, so how the hell was possible that he knew exactly where he was wounded?

"It's simple. Your shoulder is wounded, like your leg. Your skin is sunburned, that means you were in a very sunny place until a little time ago, probably the time you needed to be better enough to travel again. You move like if you're used to carry weights on your shoulders, army equipment I think, and you weren't surprised when you saw the corpse in the morgue. You didn't have any reaction in truth, and that told me you are used to see corpses, too many of them probably. So you were in a war zone, and our army is only in two places with too much sun and too many dead."

John smiled, and Sherlock looked at him as if suddenly the man grew another head.

"That's amazing. Totally amazing!"

The cab arrived before Sherlock had time to say anything. Once they were both sat in the cab John felt Sherlock silver gaze on him, and this time it wasn't a pleasurable experience. It was like if the other was trying to see in his soul looking for lies or something equally bad.

"Can you at least tell me where are we going? I'm not good in doing… whatever you just did!"

Sherlock let go a snort. He was used to forgetting that not everyone was like him, that his brain didn't work like others.

"Deduce doctor, I just deduced things looking at you. And that's what I usually do, all the time."

"As I said, that's amazing, but yet, I don't have any clue about where we are going or about your name!"

"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and we are going home."

"Home?" John was shocked. He just met this strange and charming man, and he was really ready to share a flat with him, even if he didn't know anything about him. That wasn't the John Watson the world knew, and John was starting to wonder about how much in truth the world really knew him.

"And amazing is not what usually people say about what I do!"

His tone was harsh, like suddenly walls that weren't there a moment before grew up around Sherlock Holmes, putting him miles away from everyone else.

"What do they say?"

"Piss off!"

His voice was empty of any emotion, and that upset John greatly, even if the man had no idea why.

"That's probably because they have a lot to hide, and it's almost impossible with someone like you!"

"That's the gentler way. Someone even used to call me a freak!"

Now John was pissed. He never intended to mean something like that and if Sherlock thought that about him… he never finished his thought, because he realised in truth Sherlock Holmes knew exactly nothing about him. He could deduce where he was and what happened to him, but the person behind the wound and the cane was a total mystery for him.

"I don't think you are a freak, you are a brilliant man with an amazing mind. That's all I meant."

Once again Sherlock was totally shocked. He was used to harsh words and people scared about him, he was also used to be ignored and hated, but he never met someone like John, someone ready to pay him compliments for something that made him different and hated.

Then something clicked inside Sherlock's mind. Something so obvious that he mentally cursed himself because he didn't see that earlier.

John wasn't real, even if everything in his body language told him the contrary. He was probably very good in acting and hiding things.

The cab stopped at the 221 B in Baker Street and Sherlock paid him, eager to be alone with John again and finally unmask his game, so that he could come back to his lonely life, with maybe one more wall around himself. Again he cursed himself. For a second, for a small little second he almost believed that someone in the world could really accepted him.

Sherlock went inside fast, without waiting for John. The man was able to walk after all, right? His limp as just psychosomatic after all. He didn't need help, and above all he wasn't going to let him think he could trick him.

He just wanted to find out who sent him, and why, and then start to think again about the suicides that weren't suicides, and all the other cases that Scotland Yard would provide him in the future.

John was starting to hate stairs with a passion and Sherlock looked again in another world, so far away that the doctor feared he couldn't reach for him. Never again.

He sighed. What the hell was wrong with him? He met the guy not even a hour ago, and he already was worried he could lose him? He never felt the need to be that close to someone. Never. He learned a long time ago that to be close to someone always means to be hurt in the end. He just lost his best friend in a war that took so many lives, and yet here he was, in a flat in the heart of London, with the strangest guy he ever met, scared half to death that he could lose the only chance to know him.

Sherlock was on a leather couch when finally John was able to reach the living room, or what he thought it was the living room. He still had his long coat wrapped around himself, like if he was suddenly cold, but looking better at him John realised that it probably was just another defence Sherlock was using against the world, or better against John himself this time, and the man started to wonder why Sherlock felt threatened by his presence.

Sherlock was thinking so hard that his head ached. Names, and faces and places, everything was forming a map in his mind.

Did he already meet John? If yes, where? When? Was he really just a friend Mike met casually? Was he really Mike's friend at all?

Suddenly he looked at John, and his eyes nailed the doctor where he was. His leg was hurting and his shoulder was on fire, but he couldn't move, not even to save his own life, not under that gaze that penetrated his whole soul to be stripped naked in front of Sherlock.

"So, good Doctor… if you really are a doctor… who sent you on my way?"

It was like if John was slapped. Sherlock's words hit him so hard he wasn't even sure if he really was talking to him. The only thing that was painfully clear was that Sherlock Holmes, for some strange reason, thought that John Watson was sent to him by someone else. And even if he wasn't a therapist he could still tell that that was because Sherlock thought he wasn't good enough to get compliments.

But that thought didn't erase the rage he was feeling.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Please John, can I call you John right, we are flatmates after all. The game is over, I know you are not real, you went too far and you lost. Now you can tell me who you really are and what whoever sent you gave you."

"First of all Sherlock, we are not flatmates. I don't pay any rent, I don't even know the landlord, and above all I almost don't even know where the hell are we. Second, I'm not someone you can insult without a good reason, and if you are used to talk like that to anyone, you'll be painfully sorry if you keep using that tone with me. Third, and not lest important, no one sent me your way, no one gave me anything, and above all no one set you up using me, if that's what your mind is thinking right now."

Sherlock didn't expect those answers. Usually when he found out that people lied to him, those people just ran away, ashamed that their little game was unmasked so fast, but it looked like with John it was going to be harder. And for once Sherlock wasn't sure to have the cards to play the game.

"You see John, I like to think about myself as a pragmatic person. My mind never was like other's. Since I have memory I was different, and I'm used to that. I don't care about others, or about what they think about me. I'm a highly functional sociopath, and for that I don't feel the need to hide what I think. I don't feel the need to keep others secrets, because I don't care if the truth can hurt someone or not. Most of the time all I want is to be left alone and that's ok with everyone else, because they see me as the freak who can tell if they are having an affair, or if they are doing something equally obnoxious for the society. Your mistake was to compliment me for something that usually scares people away. And that means that someone promised you something if you would have been able to gain my trust. I could go as far as guessing that this person was Mycr…"

Before he could finish his sentence Sherlock froze. Suddenly too many thoughts were in his mind. Too much data was out of place and his mind was ruled by chaos. He took his head in his hands and bit his lips hard to stop himself from screaming in front of that strange man, but John was by his side in a moment.

John was frozen himself. He never saw what was happening in front of his eyes. He was used to see panic and fear and pain, but never so strong, never all those feelings together on someone's face. He moved slowly toward Sherlock, trying his best not to spook him more than he already was. His cane forgotten, the pain in his leg and shoulder totally gone.

John was totally focused on Sherlock. On trying to understand what was happening, and on looking for a possible solution, for a way to help him as best as he could.

The doctor also tried to call Sherlock's name, to make him come back from wherever he went, but it was like if the man couldn't even hear him.

But everything changed in the moment John put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. In that moment it was like all hell was unleashed in the room, and John found himself as the target of pure fury.

Sherlock was trying desperately to build back some walls inside his mind. To make room for the new data he got, to work on silencing the noises until the moment he felt something that hadn't happen in a long time.

Someone was touching him. He felt a light pressure on his shoulder. Someone was touching him. A voice was calling his name, but what was chaos and noises only a moment before was now a red mist of fury and rage. Someone was touching him.

The man snapped from his trance, tipping up the couch with the sudden movement. He was on John's face in a second, and the doctor didn't even have time to understand what was happening before Sherlock started to scream.

Sherlock grabbed John's wrist so hard that the doctor could clearly hear the bones start to creak, and only his army training stopped him from freeing himself and hit back. He knew that right now Sherlock demanded for him to submit to his force. If he fought back now John knew he couldn't have any other chance to know this strange creature full of contradictions and fears and in the same time so strong and totally oblivious of the feelings that were exuding from him.

"Don't you ever dare to touch me again. No one touches me Doctor. No fucking one, and for sure I won't let a spy to do that!"

Sherlock was lethal right now and John knew well. He saw a man with the same gaze in their eyes kill and be killed on the battle field, but Sherlock's war was even more subtle and cruel that the one John himself fought. It was a war against himself and the past, a war that John knew Sherlock couldn't win.

"Touch me again doctor, and they won't find your corpse. Never again. Touch me again, and you'll beg me to kill you before I'll be done with you. And if you are at least smart enough to know what's better for you , you know I'm telling you the truth… good doctor."

He knew that Sherlock was telling the pure truth, he knew that well as he knew that apologise now, for something he didn't know it was wrong, would only have ignited Sherlock's fury once again.

"I promise you, I'll never do that again, as long as you won't tell me that's ok!"

Sherlock looked at him stunned. Was he really so naïve? Was this John Watson really so stupid to think that he was going to give him a chance above all now?

Before Sherlock could talk again John's voice, calm and low spoke.

"I'm not the enemy here Sherlock. I have no idea who you think sent me, but I'll prove you that I'm simply John Watson, army doctor and your flatmate. Not someone set up against you."

Sherlock learned a long time ago to see the lies behind human words. To read the body as good as anyone else was able to read the newspaper in the morning, but he couldn't see lies in John's words even if his mind was still screaming to him that that wasn't possible, that all he had to do was to look deeper, closer, to see the puppet master behind John, but all he could see in John's blue eyes was simply sincerity, and that shocked Sherlock.

He flew from the room so fast that John wondered if he ever was there in the first place, and only the knocked over couch told him that yes, Sherlock was in the same room with him a little time ago. The loud noise of a door slammed and locked also told him that probably Sherlock was in his room right now, away from him, and from the world.

The man let go a sigh and took off his jacket, too heavy for his sore shoulder, dropping it on the armchair. If the couch belonged to Sherlock, then he was going to claim that armchair as his own, because yes, John Watson already decided that he was going to be Sherlock's Holmes flatmate, and what that said about his sanity… well, it was time for his therapist to really earn her fee, right?

He moved to the couch and put it back in its original position, cursing under his breath when his shoulder screamed in pure agony, before moving to the kitchen. If his grandmother and the army thought him something was that never was so hard and bad that a good tea couldn't make it right. So he started to make tea while his mind ran to the man behind a closed door, to the enigma that Sherlock Holmes was, and to the realization that he really wanted to know the man behind the brilliant mind and the sharp tongue.


	2. Chapter 2

Once again, thanks to the great Pantherlily, and to everyone who tried this story and hopefully will keep following me in this adventure.

I still don't own anything, only the plot, and I'm not making money on this characters, just playing with them, evilly.

II

Sherlock was in his room, his sanctuary, but he couldn't find peace. He was curled up under his duvet, still wholly dressed minus his shoes, and hidden from the world, but his mind was still racing.

Too many questions very still unanswered, too many things he didn't know, and that was driving him crazy. He was almost tempted to call Mycroft and scream to him, telling him his game failed, but just the thought of have his older brother confirming his suspicious, telling him that indeed he was the one to send John, ruining for good the slight possibility that the doctor could be for real was unbearable for Sherlock right now.

He was ready to scream. How was it possible that that stupid part of himself, the one he kept locked in the back of his mind could be so stupid? How was possible that any part of him could be?

_Because no matter what you think, you need to have the hope that maybe this world is not totally against you._

Sherlock pushed his fingers deep in the palm of his hands, feeling the flesh split up slowly. He let that little pain to ease his mind for just a few seconds.

That voice. That damn voice he hated so much. It was back and he didn't have anything to fight it this time.

That idiotic Mycroft took all his drugs, all his heroin and cocaine and scared his pushers to death. Probably many of them found their last house in the Thames while he was there, in his bed, just needed a damn fix to go on, to shut up the voice and let his brain to calm down.

"Yes, because it ended up so well the last time I tried to have hope."

People always thought he was crazy, a crazy man talking aloud to no one. They never realised that he was talking to himself, in the real meaning of the word. Sherlock put his feelings and emotions, the few he still was able to feel, in a chest deep hidden inside the palace that was his mind. Sometimes his mind revolted against him, letting those feelings free to hunt him down. It was in moment like that that Sherlock had the need to talk.

His feelings against his whole mind. The feelings never had a chance to win, but they were still trying, even after so long.

He tossed and tossed under the duvet like if suddenly his bed turned stone. Did he really want John Watson in his life? Did he really want to share a house with him? To share his work with him? He never had the urge to share parts of himself with anyone. And yet the doctor crept inside his mind the moment their eyes met.

"I don't need him. Damn it! I don't need anyone."

He was screaming now. The voice was getting stronger, and he couldn't find a way to shut that door.

_Maybe that's the problem Sherlock. Maybe you always lied to yourself. Maybe you really need him dear, and that's scaring you beyond your mind._

"Shut up. Just shut up. You don't know anything about me. You don't know anything period. Leave me alone."

Why? Why the voice was so strong? Why Mycroft took away everything that could help him right now?

The duvet flew at the end of the bed while Sherlock got up looking for the only thing left for him to stop the voice. He took the sharp letter opener he always kept close to his bed and came back under the duvet, where no one could reach for him, where no one could tell him that it was wrong, and dangerous.

He bared his right arm and started to cut, pushing to blade deep in his flesh. He needed the pain and the blood. He could keep at bay the voice with that. But for the first time since he started to cut himself his mind wasn't blank, it wasn't empty and silent. There was someone there with him, someone with deep blue eyes and a gentle smile.

That made him fly into a blind rage. Against the world, against himself, but above all against the stupid Doctor who dared to entre his life like a hurricane and ruin the perfect peace he created inside himself.

That never happened to Sherlock. Never before in his whole life someone was able to pass all his walls in just a bunch of seconds, he never let anyone that close to him. He never needed someone in his life like he needed John Watson, and that was scary.

_Stop it please. Stop it. Give him a possibility._

"No, I can't, I won't. That won't happen. Never"

But Sherlock knew that he was going to lose this battle. Even if he wasn't going to admit it, a little part of his mind knew that that was the truth.

For the first time in his life Sherlock Holmes was scared to death because he knew well what happens when you let someone close to you. At some point, sooner or later, they leave you, and your fall and break and can't be whole ever again.

He saw that happening to his mother when she found out about his father's affair. The once sunny and happy lady was gone forever and in her place there was a bitter noble woman who never had time for her sons.

He swore when he was just a little child that no one would ever have the power to do that to him. And now Sherlock felt like if he broke a promise to himself.

The fury took control of him all over again, and he kept cutting, deep and deeper while the blood stained the white sheets.

John was watching the dry leaves coming back to life in the hot water, letting the aroma calm his nerves and his mind. He wasn't really at ease in that strange kitchen, but he found everything he was looking for.

As usual doing something manual helped him to think. And John knew well that Sherlock Holmes was a mystery that was going to keep his hands more than full.

He could hear noises from the locked room where Sherlock disappeared, but he wasn't able to tell what was going on in the other room. He could only deduce that the man was still upset.

What happened only a few minutes ago was painfully clear in his doctor mind. Sherlock was betrayed so many times that just the thought of someone simply congratulating him for his mind was impossible to handle for the younger man. It was easier for him to think about a new trap than to think, even just for a moment, that his words could have been true.

John was lost in his thought about how to make Sherlock see that he was sincere, that he wasn't one of the men who betrayed him, and John had a bad feeling too many abused Sherlock's trust for him to trust people easily again.

He only hoped he could be able to show him, with time, that he was worth his trust, or that little trust John hoped he was still able to feel for others.

The noise of his cell phone almost made him jump. No one had his number if not Harry, and right now he really wasn't interested in hearing the drunk voice and the cries of someone who lost the best thing in her life because of her habit. But no matter how much he hated the thought of something distracting him from Sherlock, he knew better than ignore Harry, she was able to send him thousands of messages if she felt like that, and in her drunk state, that wasn't even the worse she could do to gain his attention.

What surprised John was that the message he got didn't show any number, just a text.

_Get in the car, doctor._

John rose from his chair and looked out of the window. There was only one car in the street, a black, expensive one, and it was clear it was waiting for someone.

Everything in his soldier training was screaming to John not to trust whoever sent the message to him, but in the same time his instinct was telling him that the car was somehow connected to Sherlock and who hurt him in the past. And John already decided he was going to find out who dared to hurt that strange and beautiful creature that was Sherlock Holmes and make them pay, dearly. He didn't even try to shut the voice in his mind that was starting to ask him since when a man got to own his full attention like Sherlock, and why he was already starting to think about him as his own. There would have been time for those answers. For now he had a car to catch and a few more mysteries to solve.

Sherlock distinctly heard the front door open and close and John's steps leading him out of the flat and out of his life.

So he gave up. The man he told to disappear left in the end, and that hurt more than Sherlock could understand. He had no idea why he felt like if someone ripped his heart out of his chest and thrown away while he could still feel the pain.

"See? He left. He left and I'm still alive. He wasn't meant to stay here."

_But you wish he was._

The voice was weak, and far away, but Sherlock could still hear it.

He came out from his room and was already texting to Lestrade, hoping to forget everything else losing himself in the case he so abruptly left hours ago when he froze on his track. On the table close to the couch that was in its original position again was a steaming cup of tea.

_Drink it. There is nothing that a cup of tea can't make better. JW_

Sherlock was stunned. For the first time he couldn't deduce what was under his nose. The cuts on his arm were still throbbing and he felt the instant need to add more. Once again confusion and chaos were reigning in his mind.

What did that mean? Was John going to come back? Where he was now? Could he dare to hope?

He dismissed all the questions and focused only on his drink and on the case, he could do that, he could throw himself into work until he drained himself to the state of an empty shell, and maybe this time someone was going to be by his side when he hit that point.

_Maybe he's different Sherlock. Maybe he won't hurt you._

Sherlock dipped his fingernails in the new cuts and licked the blood. The copper taste brought him back to focus. He didn't have time to think about John Watson right now. He wasn't going to let the man interfere with his work.

If he ever came back Sherlock was going to test him, to push him so hard that he was sure the doctor was going to break and leave in no time at all. He was going to prove that John Watson wasn't there to stay. Not now, not ever. And he was going to do that without the shadow of a doubt.

As soon as John arrived to the car the door opened for him, all his instincts told him to be prepared to fight, but he didn't show that to the beautiful woman focused on her blackberry, he knew that she was lethal, he saw many like her in the army, and didn't want to uncover his cards for the moment.

"So, where are we going?"

He decided to play dumb, after all that was people expected from him, right? The good army doctor ready to help.

Pity almost no one knew about his training in the army. He was a doctor yes, but he was trained to kill to, and he did that, more than once.

He wasn't proud. For John killing wasn't the answer, but he did that for his Country and his men, and for him that was enough.

"Someone wants to meet you doctor Watson!"

That was all the answer he got. He wasn't really surprised, but just a little annoyed. Like he wasn't really surprised when the car stopped in what looked like the parking of an empty warehouse.

"You should go, he's a very busy man you know?"

Oh, so the lethal woman was a little bit sour about her employer. Probably because he didn't pay her the attention she obviously wanted from him. He would have asked, just to see her snap from her perfect behaviour, but he took pity on her.

He had better things to do than to lose his time with her. For example find out who the hell was able to get his number after not even a week he was back home.

The place was empty but for a standing man, and a chair. Funny, everything looked friendly enough, but John knew better. Everything was set up for a third degree, with one of them sat and the other towering over him.

No, he wasn't going to play that game with the mysterious man, even if his leg hurts like a bitch.

"How kind of you to meet me John. Please sit down, your leg is probably hurting right now!"

The man smiled sweetly, and John realised that if he thought the woman was lethal, then he didn't know what to call him.

"I didn't have much of a choice. You know, if you wanted to talk to me, you could call me on my phone. You didn't have any reserve in texting me, right? And no, thanks, I don't wonna sit down!"

The man looked surprised. But that was probably just an act to make him feel at ease. The man reminded John of a snake, silent, invisible, and ready to bite.

But his eyes, his eyes held something familiar, even if John wasn't able to tell what. He just kept staring at them.

He knew those eyes, but he couldn't place where he already saw them.

"I could have doctor, but when one wants to avoid the attentions of Sherlock Holmes you must learn to be discreet doctor."

John kept his eyes in the stranger's face without ever cast down, and that was probably the first time that a civilian behaved like that with him.

John had the confirm to that thought when the man spoke again.

"You don't seem very afraid!"

"You don't look very scary."

This time the smile on the man's face looked almost real, but it never reached for his eyes. John was taught to never trust someone who can't smile with his eyes.

"Who are you?"

It was only fair, after all the man knew his name, and if he wasn't wrong, he knew a lot more than just that.

"An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock? How? I don't think you two are friends."

"You saw him doctor. How many friends do you think he has?"

That was a good question, something about what John wondered in the little time he knew Sherlock. He could tell the man was alone, probably he was alone for most of his life if not his whole life, and he felt the fierce protector wake up inside. Yes, he already felt extremely protective of Sherlock Holmes, and he wasn't going to let a stranger with a too sweet and fake smile, and power exuding from his whole person to talk about him, not with that indulgent tone that a man can use to talk about an abandoned child.

"I'm the closest thing to a friend a man like Sherlock Holmes can have."

"And what's that?"

"An enemy. Surely in his mind I am. He could call me his archenemy, he loves to be a little dramatic."

There was something that sounded like regret in the man's voice. But John couldn't tell way. He still had too little in his hands about this stranger.

He only knew that he was playing a strange game, and no one told him about the rules.

A moment he could look as cold as ice, and really Sherlock's enemy, then, a second later, something different emerged from his words or his eyes, and John wasn't sure anymore about how to read him.

"Thank God you are above all that."

John's tone was cold, like the one he was used to have in the army when he couldn't afford to let others see his true feelings. He didn't like to be played, and he also didn't like to be used above all if he had no idea for what.

"Dear Doctor, you look to me a smart man. And I know many probably already warned you to stay away from Sherlock Holmes. But if you move at the 221 B Baker Street, I'm ready to pay you a fair amount of money every month…"

John felt the rage to rise inside his body. Whoever the man was, he just made a huge mistake. John Watson was a man of few words, and with a kind soul, but above all was a man whose loyalty was hard to conquer. The man's behaviour just laid his loyalty at Sherlock's feet.

"You want to pay me for what exactly?"

The doctor wasn't even trying to hide his rage now.

"Information."

Concise, like that was the only possible answer. Like a man after a deal, nothing more nothing less. And again John was taken aback. Again he found himself with nothing in his hands about this man and his real motivations.

The only thing that changed in him was that his impeccable front was starting to show something that fought with his words.

John wasn't even sure if the man was conscious of what he was letting go, but the way he moved on his heels, or the constant movement of his fingers, now relaxed, now in fists again, and his eyes were showing him that a deal wasn't exactly what he was after. Not an economical one at least.

"Basically you are asking me to spy on Sherlock Holmes in his own house."

It was almost impossible to hear all that poison in John's words, ever. Not even with the rebel who killed three of his men he let the disgust to be so clear in his voice.

"I worry about Sherlock, constantly."

This time something was really different in the man. Like if for the first time in all their little chat he told the truth. And even if John couldn't trust him now, a part of him was almost sure that no matter what he claimed, the man wasn't Sherlock's enemy, not on his part at least.

"How nice of you."

"But I would prefer if my concerns were unspoken. Sherlock and I, we have a complicated relationship."

"I don't doubt that if your way to show concern is to pay people to spy on him."

"Already so protective John? Sadly you don't know much about Sherlock. Sadly you have no idea how hard it is to get close to him if he doesn't want you anywhere near him. And yes, I had to pay people to spy on him, just to be sure he was still alive."

"You are right, I don't know much about him. But I know something. I know what your way did to him. I know how much he distrusts people, obviously because someone like you always went behind his back. I don't care why you did that, I only care about what you and people like you did to him. And now, if we have done here, I'd like to go home."

John never saw the gaze in the stranger's eyes while he walked to the car. It was a gaze that spoken of hope. For what, that was still a mystery.


	3. Chapter 3

III

James Moriarty was mad. The rage and fury were woken up in him by a mere man. Someone who shouldn't even have entered his radar.

Something went wrong in one of his plans. A sniper killed one of his best connection with the Russian government and that wasn't good, but what was even worse was that the killer wasn't working for him.

His usually impeccably neat study was a mess. At least five of his computers where broken, literally crushed, with pieces everywhere.

The wall with all his notes and plans was now bare. All the papers burned in James' blind rage, but he couldn't stand the white of the plaster, so stains of red and still warm blood now adorned it.

The corpse of the man who was brave enough to tell him about the accident forgotten in a corner.

James' black eyes, so bright and vigil were glued to the screen, the only one that was saved because not even in his rage he was stupid. He knew he had to see who ruined his plan, he had to study him, and one he would have had all the information, he was going to hit so hard that the sniper was going to beg him to be killed long before James was ready to send him to hell.

The video was taken by a hidden camera in the hotel room where the meeting between the politicians and the leader of a terrorist group from Iraq were making a deal. No one of the two parts involved had any idea that Moriarty was behind them both. And that was the fanny part of that little game.

The politician and the terrorist both believed they were making deals behind his back using his money; they had no idea they were in the middle of a perfectly laid trap.

Or at least his plan had been perfect until the moment a bullet was shot in the middle of the politician's eyes. James saw the terrorist leader panic, and start to scream for his men to find the shooter, like if it wasn't clear that whoever was behind the trigger was far away and well hidden. But James didn't care about the little tragedy happening in the hotel room.

In less than five minutes the place as going to be filled with cops and MI5, it wasn't his problem anymore. He wasn't even going to send his killers after all. No one alive in that room knew his name, and he didn't have time to waste with someone who stopped to be funny the moment he tried to betray him.

His attention was now focused on what other people would have clearly missing out. The hotel room was chosen for a reason. There weren't high buildings all around, so to prevent the action of a sniper. It was placed backlight as regard of the sun so that a possible shooter would have been blinded by the rays cutting the clouds.

The hole of the bullet was perfectly in the middle of the prominent grey eyebrows. Everything on the scene was screaming to James that the man who took the shot was well trained, cold as ice, acclimated to violence, and excited by it. A former army, trained in command and used to keep calm in every situation. Jim wanted him.

Just when he was ready to finish his deduction one of the black dressed men who stormed in the room catching the terrorist and his bodyguards, found the little hidden camera. James wasn't upset. He placed that so that it could have been easily spotted if someone paid enough attention. And his mind was already focused on the sniper he wanted at his feet.

000

Sebastian was in his room, his employer booked the imperial suite at the Konigshof in Munich. He came back by foot, he always loved to walk after a job. It helped him to think, to really enjoy the act of taking a life.

The man was reading Homer and drinking red wine on the airy balcony of his room. His warm voice was reading aloud the ancient words, and once again the eternal story of the Trojan War and the love and hate that forged the souls of many was living again.

No one ever saw that side of Sebastian Moran.

The man he could have been if life took a different path with him. The man who loved classical poetry and literature, and opera and who could spend hours and hours losing himself in art.

As a covering he was acting as a bored wealthy man looking for excitement in a foreign city, and what was funny was that in another life he could have been just that. He was the only son of a prominent member of the English Parliament after all. He could have had lived the life of every other member of his social class, but he never wanted that for himself.

He never used his father's name, not to go into Eton and not even to be admitted into Oxford. Not that his father was ever proud of him. In another lifetime that hurt.

Sebastian wasn't always a cold hearted killer. He was a sweet child back when he still was allowed to believe in the beauty of the world. Then his father and war changed him.

His father taught him to never trust anyone. To never believe in love. The army taught him that he was good at killing people, but even more he was good in torturing them to have information and above all that to be too good in doing both was like a death sentence.

They kicked him out as a rabid dog, just because he killed a higher ranked bastard who was threatening the life of all his men. He was a fierce protector. Since the beginning he chose the army for the opportunity to do something tangible for his Country and his people. And since he got his first rank he swore to himself that he always would have protected the men under his command. Then a fucking idiot with too many stars on his jacket and too much weight on his stomach joined the battlefield because he had to show everyone that he didn't get the General status because he kissed all the asses he met on his path and suddenly everything went to hell.

The phone in his room rang, distracting Sebastian from his thoughts and his book. He went to answer, totally at ease with only a towel wrapped around his waist showing his long legs and his toned chest.

His body was telling of a man used to physical activity and hours spent in the gym. But his back was disfigured by a huge scar, not made by a weapon, but made by pure torture.

"Hello"

His voice didn't show any accent. It was impossible to say where he was from.

"Mister Dycan? Your ticket for La Traviata just arrived. The car will be ready to take you to the Opera house at 8."

"Thank you, I'll be ready on time."

The book forgotten on the table in the balcony while the light wind played with its pages, if Sebastian paid a little more attention, he would have seen the glimpse of a flash, for just a second.

000

James Moriarty just needed a few calls and all his criminal network started to look for the sniper who dared to mess up with the Boss' plan. The orders were clear, he just needed a name, anyone was forbidden to touch the man.

Everything had to be left in his hands. And every men working for him knew exactly the price if his wishes were going to be ignored.

He was strangely calm, amused almost. His mood changed so fast, and this time for the best. He left his study and went to his living room, where a nice glass of fine scotch and ice was waiting for him perfectly on the centre of a hand crocheted glass holder. Everything in the room was neat and spoke of wealthy and maniacal obsession for all the shades of warm brown and red from the ancient looking furniture to the huge Persian carpet that caressed the bare feet of its owner.

A childlike smile lighted Jim's face. Everything was perfect in that room, and soon it would be perfect in his mind too, he just needed a name and a new plan, not to destroy this time, but to bind the sniper's life to him.

Because a man like the one he was looking for was simply a perfect addiction to his network, because an artist like he showed he was, was worth only the best, and Jim knew he was the best in his field.

And if he didn't want to work for him, Jim was going to show him what real art can also be, even if for the first time in a long time he really hoped he didn't have to kill the man still without a name.

He was sat on his leather couch, surrounded by beauty, and his mind was working so fast but with calm. Jim didn't feel the need to use drugs right now, he didn't feel the need to flee from reality, because for once he was really challenged and excited by the possibility of a hunt.

Jim looked so young in the rare moments he was allowed peace. Sat in the corner of a too big couch, his knees to his chest and his head resting on top of them. No one looking at him right now could even imagine what his mind was capable of. No one could even imagine that James Moriarty killed for the first time when he was eleven. One of the few, rare times, when he bloodied his own hands.

That day, at the school pool, something was finally clear in his mind. He was different, and that wasn't a bad thing. He was smarter, he was crueller and he didn't have a soul. He was going to be the greatest villain that the world history ever had, and he was proud of that. He swore to himself that he was going to scare and bring to their knees governments and politicians, and why not, all Scotland Yard, and the Queen herself.

And after years he was still faithful to the promise he made on the grave of his first victim, the same boy who never was found again. He was a bully and a rapist, and Jim after all just made a favour to society getting rid of him.

He still regretted that no one realised that. No one ever realised who was behind the disappearing of Carl. He was wondering if it wasn't time for him to give to bobbies some clues about that old cold case, but for now he had better things to do. Things that weren't boring.

His BlackBerry told him that there was a message calling for his attention. A simple email, with a name and a photo.

"Well, hello Mr. Moran."

He was looking at the photo, and something strange happened to him. For just a moment his heart skipped a beat.

He was looking at the most amazing light green eyes he ever saw. They were so beautiful that for a moment Jim thought about taking them and keeping them preserved so that he was able to look at them every time he wanted.

But even stranger, he didn't want only the eyes. He wanted the man who was wearing those beauty.

With a name and a photo Jim didn't waste any time to find out who Moran was faking to be. After all he had access to every database in Germany. And the photo was taken in one of the most beautiful hotel in the whole city.

It was clear that whoever paid him to kill his man as wealthy, and wanted only the best for his sniper.

For a moment Jim wondered if there was more between Mr. Moran, now a guest of the city of Munich under the name of Maximilian Dycan, and his employer, after all he didn't have any trouble to believe that a man like Sebastian Moran could bring on their knees men and women, all begging to be fucked by the former soldier. Or even better all begging to fuck him.

The black eyed man started to guess who he would have preferred as a lover. If the smooth and warm curves of a woman or the hard angular body of a man. Or maybe even both. His mind ran wild thinking about the sniper tied on a four post bed whit a woman riding him wildly and his moans and whispers muffled by a cock shoved deep in his throat.

Jim Moriarty didn't know if he wanted to curse or thank Sebastian Moran. His body was answering to the images of his mind, and he never allowed his body to take pleasure if not in blood or in a perfect laid plan. He never really felt the need for physical pleasure. Not after Carl. Sex for Jim Moriarty was just another way to manipulate people and use them for his own purposes, not something more, not something to really enjoy, but the hard on he was showing now was telling another story, and Jim wasn't really prepared for that.

"It seems, my pet, that we are going to meet tonight."

Jim was looking to the Opera House. It was so easy to find out that his prey was going to see La Traviata, and he had every intention to be there. He had every intention to study that strange man whose history and life were so different that Jim's, but them both were walking the same path now.

"Gerard, make a bath for me, yes?"

Moriarty was a man used to order around, and above all he as a man used to have people around him ready to do everything he asked, without a second thought. Probably the only exception to that unspoken rule was the old butler he had in Munich. He used to travel with him and attend to every human need Jim could have had, but that was a long time ago.

Gerard was starting to be too old for that now, but he still took care good care of Jim the times he was in Germany.

Those were probably the only times where he had regular meals and an almost normal amount of sleep every night.

"Of course Sir. Anything else?"

Jim was silent for a little time before to speak again. He didn't want to attract attention on himself that night, he needed to be almost invisible. A wealthy man between other wealthy men and for that he needed a date for the evening.

Someone used to talk and to be pretty, just that. He knew he was going to be bored out of his mind for all the time in the car, but at least he had a target this time. At least he could focus on his prey while she talked, sure that this time she was going to win his attention and maybe something more.

"Yes, call Miss Von Trott and ask her if she's interested in a night at the Opera. If yes, tell her I'll pick her up at 8."

"I will do Sir."

Jim took his time in the bath. He wasn't a man used to deny himself the pleasure of the good things in life.

The rich scent of the bath salts were permeating the air while the steam and the hot water were making his naturally pale skin look almost pink.

He was washing his hair with a light scented shampoo, massaging his scalp and moaning so loud that everyone hearing him could think he was having sex in his luxurious bathroom. His perfect manicured fingers were moving between his locks bringing sinful pleasure to Jim. But his mind couldn't be focused on that. He wasn't able to stop thinking about green eyes and wondering how his fingers would feel between his hair, and how the blond hair would feel between his own fingers.

"Maybe I should just kill you, Mr Moran. No one has ever had any effect on me. I become the obsession of many, not one get to obsess me. Yes, maybe I should kill you. I could do that tonight, in the dark, slipping my fingers around your throat. Or slashing it with one of my knives. You could feel it. The blade opening you, slowly, deeply, making your blood run on my fingers, so warm and rich, and you'd see my eyes, I'd let you watch me while you die, so I'd be the last thing in this world to get your attention, and you'd be totally focused on me. We'd be so close in your last moments Sebastian. Like lovers, more than lovers and it'd be so beautiful and perfect."

Jim whispered aloud and shook his head. No, that wasn't going to work. It would be perfect yes, but only for a few moments, maybe some minutes, but that wasn't enough.

"Too bad Sebastian. We'll have to wait for that. It's not time to fly yet."

000

Helga Von Trott was exactly like Jim imagined her in his mind. She was wearing a long white satin dress with a diamond necklace placed on milk white flawless skin. Her long blond hair were curled and gently laid on her shoulder, but the diamonds and sapphire pins she was also wearing let her neck bare so that everyone could see a pair of sapphire earrings that probably were in her family for generations.

She was all smiles and perfume and Jim hated her even more than usual. He had to focus his mind on the real reason he invited her to the Opera. She was just a pretty tool in his hands, and sooner or later she was going to finish the duty she didn't even was aware she was carrying out, and that would resolve in a tragic accident for the sweet young heir of the Von Trott fortune.

"Helga, it's always a pleasure to see you."

Jim took her hand and lightly pressed his lips on it, in an elegant and old fashioned way that made the young woman smile and glow with pride.

All her friends envied her for the way the elusive and mysterious Jim Moriarty always acted around her.

They all were sure than sooner or later he was going to propose, and even if she never said that to anyone she really hoped that day would come. Sooner was better than later in her mind.

"It was such a beautiful surprise when you invited me Jim. I was so happy."

Jim saw a light shade of pink colour her face and almost had to fight a yawn. She was so boring, but she also was the way he could hope to spend his night watching the elusive Mr Moran.

When they arrived at the National Theater, after a boring trip where Helga tried her best to entertain him with frivolous gossip about who had an affair with who and where x was found shagging y, that almost had Jim forced to commit suicide, Jim was glad to see that almost everyone of Helga's friends were present. That would have given him at least a moment of piece.

His black eyes started to scan the hall. He knew who he was looking for, and no one seemed to notice that he wasn't at all interested in the conversation with Helga and friends, even if he was able to nod and smile in the right moments.

Then, after a too long time, in Jim's agenda, he saw Sebastian. The man was alone, with a glass of red wine in his hand, and his impossibly green eyes buried in the book of the Opera.

Jim wondered which character in the Opera he could have been. He knew enough about the Colonel Sebastian Moran to see him to be a perfect Alfredo Germont, and Jim knew all too well that the only character for him was the Baron Douphol. With the only difference that he wasn't going to fight to keep Violetta, but to seduce and own Alfredo himself.

"Jim? We should go."

For a moment Jim felt rage woke inside himself and was almost going to hit the stupid little doll who dared to distract him from Sebastian, but that lasted only a second, the time to get back control and to show a fake smile.

"Of course my dear."

They followed the valet predisposed to their box and let him to show them their places. Jim helped Helga to sit down on the comfy and posh armchair in red velvet before he sat at her side.

He chose that box for a reason, not because it was one of the best place in the whole theatre, but because it was possible for him to look at the other boxes without being seen. And Jim's attention was focused on a box to his right. A box taken by Sebastian Moran.

Sebastian had the feeling someone was watching him. It started almost as soon he put feet on the hall of the theatre.

It was like a jolt all over his spine. He was alert in a second. Like if he still was on a battlefield, or on a mission.

He tried to understand who was watching him, but as unnerving at it was, he couldn't find anyone in particular.

He was surrounded by wealthy and bored people, forced to attend to the Opera because it was what it was requested from them.

To show their money in every possible occasion. Probably only a few of them were really interested in the Opera and that upset Sebastian.

He kept looking around, sipping slowly from his glass of red wine, but again, even if the sensation was strong and clear, he couldn't see anyone intent to watch him.

For a moment his attention was taken by his current task, and he cursed himself for that. He met two beautiful and shining black eyes and was instantly attracted to them. They were deep, so deep he wasn't sure it was possible to see the end of the soul they were showing. And that soul was so dark, but not empty or cold as he saw too many times.

It was like if a black fire was burning inside those eyes, ready to destroy the world. It lasted only for a moment, but Sebastian couldn't stop to think about black eyes and the face of an angel he saw just for a moment before the valet took away the man and his date.

Even now, with the lights off, and the curtain that was slowly opening, and above all the feeling to be watched still present on his skin, like if someone was trying to read him as a book, the only thing Sebastian was really able to focus on were those eyes and the promises of destruction they held.


	4. Chapter 4

_I still don't own them. And again I want to thank Pantherlily for her precious help. I'm so glad she decided to help me with this story. _

IV

Jim spent his time focused on Sebastian Moran, hidden in the dark of his box. A part of him hated the green eyed man for the power he dared to have on him.

If someone could see him, Jim looked like everyone else in the Opera House, with his eyes on the stage, maybe thinking about poor Violetta and her choices and her impossible love. No one could even imagine that his fast and long fingers were running on the buttons of his phone.

No one could imagine that without even watching at the screen the man was sending plans that would have scared even the bravest of men.

But his cold and calculating eyes were on Sebastian, watching every one of his moves.

Helga's perfume was driving Jim mad. It was expensive yes, but it didn't belong to her. It was like a precious and rich red wine wasted on a McDonald's lunch.

And suddenly Jim wondered about what cologne Sebastian was wearing. What kind of scent could portray a man with Sebastian's past, and would it be the same he'd choose to start a new life? Because that was what Jim was going to offer him.

A new life, a better one.

Or a painful and slow death if the former colonel dared to deny him what he wanted.

000

Sebastian knew the Opera since he was a young boy forced to attend Gala and opening night with his family.

He was able to sing more than one single Aria, and still that night he couldn't care about the characters or the singers or the story itself.

His mind was only full of black and cold eyes. And even if a part of him really wanted to get rid of that memory, the beast in him, the one that scared the shit out of his enemies, and sometimes even his own few friends, was wild awake and ready to play.

The beast recognised someone similar to him, and wanted more. But the beast couldn't even imagine how far from the truth that was.

Sebastian realised with a little hint of shame that everyone was on their feet, acclaiming the singers.

Did he really lose more than two hours thinking about someone he wasn't going to see anymore? That was unbelievable, and not Sebastian at all.

The former Colonel decided to blame his recent job, too boring, too easy for someone like him, but it did paid him good. But it missed the excitement of danger, the adrenaline he loved to feel running in his veins.

And above all it missed what Sebastian always fought for.

Sebastian shook his head furiously. He knew he couldn't think like that, not anymore. His job ensured him a damn good pay, and that was all.

A smirk formed on his mouth at the thought that after all he wasn't so different from a well paid whore. Never to have the same client night after night, always ready to forget their faces, yes, sometimes Sebastian really thought that after all he was a whore.

If his mind had been more lucid, and he wasn't lost in his thoughts, Sebastian would have seen the black car that passed a little too close to the rented Limo his hotel booked for him. He would have seen the man he was still thinking about take his date to a beautiful car and kiss her hand in a gentle but firm goodnight.

Sadly Sebastian was lost in thoughts and he never knew what was going to hit him.

000

Sebastian found difficult to fall asleep, and that was strange after a job, usually killing someone had a calming effect on the former colonel. That was one of the reasons he was often chosen for impossible missions during his time in the army.

But that night sleep eluded him, and when exhaustion finally shut his eyes, his dreams were plagued by impossibly dark eyes burning his soul and condemning him to damnation.

Dawn coloured the room with delicate shades of violet and pink, but it wasn't that that woke Sebastian.

His senses were screaming danger even if the room was perfectly silent. His right hand darted to the knife hidden under his pillow, but he was stopped by the sound of a voice with a thick Irish accent.

"Now, now Colonel, I wouldn't do that if I was in you."

Sebastian cursed as a sailor in his mind. Never in his whole life was he taken by surprise, and yet there he was in a hotel room, with an intruder, and for some strange reason he was following his orders.

Sebastian sat on the bed with slow moves, his bare legs still covered by the silk and his chest visible to the intruder.

He wasn't going to give the man any other advantage. He remained cold while his eyes adjusted to the light so he finally could see who was in his room.

If the other was waiting for a frightened man he would have been disappointed because Sebastian wasn't going to play that role.

His breath was cut in his throat when the man, who watched Sebastian move under the sheets form a dark corner in the room, moved where the light made possible for Sebastian to recognise him.

The man who haunted him all night.

"Hello Mr. Moran"

Jim tried his best to hide the strange and mostly unknown emotions rising in his chest watching the tanned and scarred man in front of him.

He wanted that man, under his thumb, to punish him for the attentions he was already claiming, to use his force against his enemies, and for the first time he wanted someone just because he knew that Sebastian could become something so much more and more perfect that just a paid killer.

"How do you know my name? And who the hell are you?"

Jim smiled. Straight to the point even if he was visibly at a disadvantage in that situation. He liked that. Another point Sebastian wasn't even aware he scored.

"I know a lot about you Mr Moran."

Jim walked to the bed and pushed a knee on the edge, towering on the form of Sebastian's body.

"I know you are the thirty-eighth Earl of Moran since your father unfortunately died before he had the time to change his will. I know what scars on your body you worship the most. The ones proving you are your own man, not your father's son. The ones you got fighting against the tiger. And I know what scars you hate the most, Sebastian, the ones your father gave you. The one that were meant to forge you as his heir. As someone like him. I know you killed your father, not because of the title or the money, but because you couldn't let him live thinking he defeated you. And because of your mother."

Sebastian was speechless. No one ever knew the truth about his mother's death. Nobody could know. And now, that crazy idiot who dared to enter his room and talk to him like he was the King of the world, spoke about her as if he knew everything.

Sebastian was ready to attack this time, when the man spoke again.

"The name is James, James Moriarty."

Sebastian went pale in a second. He knew that name. Everyone knew who Moriarty was in the underground, in the society that was born because the government and politicians weren't able to make England as safe as they loved to tell the world.

Moriarty was a ghost, a crime lord, the crime lord who ruled over all of the underworld. A man no one wanted as an enemy, ready to kill you just because he didn't like how you dress. And above all a man no one really ever saw.

Every man who worked for him was loyal to death to the ghost. From his most highly paid killer to the last of his servants, no one was going to sell him for any amount of money. That at least was what the rumours always said.

And now the most powerful criminal in all England, and maybe even Europe if Sebastian wasn't wrong, was in his room, chit chatting with him.

"Good, I see you know who I am Sebastian. That's very good. It'll make our lovable conversation easier, tiger."

The way Jim said tiger froze Sebastian's blood. There was something predatory in the man's eyes, something totally mad and cold, but alive in the same time. Like if a dark fire burned behind those dark orbs.

Before Sebastian could react Jim started to talk again.

"You see Colonel, you ruined one of my plans a few hours ago."

The gaze in his eyes became suddenly cold as ice and Sebastian could feel his senses screaming to take the knife and attack the smaller man before he was the dead one in the room, but once again he stayed perfectly still, listening.

"Usually I would have killed everyone who dared to do something like that… Or I would have him killed by one of my men, but this time Sebastian, this time I decided otherwise. You are an artist, you are cold, and you love killing people, because you know they aren't worth anything in truth, you know you are making them a favour, and you love the feeling to be like a god, with the power to end or save lives. And I want all of that for me Sebastian. So you have two possibilities now. You become mine, or you die because you refused me."

Sebastian was stunned. He was sure he was a dead man and now James Moriarty, criminal extraordinaire, was giving him the possibility to work for him.

That sounded too simple.

"What's the price, Moriarty?"

Jim smiled, and his smile was the one of a spoiled brat who just threw away his new toy because he wanted something else. And he knew he was going to have it.

"I'll pay you one million for killing Sebastian, and I'll give you back the power they stripped from you when they kicked you out of the army."

"No, what's the price I have to pay to work for you."

Jim's smile grew big and bigger.

"You'll just have to give up everything and be mine Colonel. That's all I ask."

Sebastian was silent for a few moments, and the two men used the time to really watch at each other.

They were as different as possible.

Jim was shorter, with snowy and flawless skin, his hair and eyes dark as warm and rich expensive pure chocolate.

Sebastian was tanned, with fair eyes and hair, and his body was scarred by the wars and what he endured to become the man he was now, and yet they were perfect together. Night and day, dark and a darker shade of light.

Sebastian knew he was going to say yes. Not because of the money or the power, but because of Jim, and suddenly he understood the loyalty of Jim's men.

"Ok."

Sebastian didn't have much more to say, and he wasn't a man prone to talk if words weren't really needed.

"You'll prove yourself to me Sebastian. You'll prove to me I wasn't wrong choosing to keep you my pet."

"How?"

Sebastian was already in the state of mind where he was ready to follow orders, his soldier state like he liked to call it.

"You have twenty-four hours Moran. Choose someone not boring to kill, and prove to me you are not only a good sniper, but that you can use your brain. If your choice pleases me, you'll be my pet. Otherwise…"

"Otherwise I'm dead, I know."

Once again the two men stared at each other, and Sebastian could finally understand what was wrong with Jim. He tried to figure out since the moment the other man came closer.

It was the smell.

"You stink of expensive perfume that not even my grandmother would wear if she was still alive."

For the very first time Jim was taken by surprise. He just finished telling Sebastian he was dead if he didn't like his choice for a victim, and the man thought about his smell?

That was insane.

"You are insane Colonel Moran, you know that right?"

"That didn't seem to be a problem for you, Sir."

Jim's laugh was like silver bells moved by wind.

"If you really must know, Sebastian, the smell is a very rare and expensive perfume that is created only for the Von Trott women since the eighteenth century."

"Well, that only means that the Von Trott Women, stink since the eighteenth century."

"Yes, that's probably very true Colonel, I'm afraid I'll have to burn my suit."

"That's probably the only thing to do Sir. I doubt that the smell will ever disappear."

Jim was in a dark mood now, and Sebastian started to realise how easy (Add 'it' after 'easy') was to upset Moriarty.

"It was one of my favourite."

"I'm sorry for your loss, Sir."

Jim slapped Sebastian, hard. His eyes as cold as ice, before he grabbed his chin with a force Sebastian didn't think a man like Jim could have.

"Never think you are my equal, Sebastian, never think you can make fun of me. Remember your place pet, and don't ever cross me again. Or I'll drown you in Helga's perfume after I killed her for ruining my suit. Am I clear pet?"

Sebastian just nodded, but that only enraged Jim more. He pushed his thumb fingernail in the soft skin under Sebastian's chin.

"I said, am I clear pet?"

"Yes sir, crystal."

Jim cut the pressure of his thumb and slowly begun to sooth the reddened skin.

"That's better, pet. See? It wasn't so hard. And remember, when I ask you something, I want an answer. Next time I won't be so gentle."

"Understood sir."

Jim smiled again, and once again his mood was different. Sebastian knew it would be better for him to learn to recognise Jim's mood, and to find out the triggers to any of them, for his own sanity.

"Now, back to ourselves. In twenty-four hours I'll meet you in this room again. And you'll show me your choice. Don't even think to try to run, I'd know that and I'd be so disappointed, pet. So very disappointed."

Sebastian knew that tone well. And he knew it was a tone you don't mess with if you value your life.

"I'll be here, sir."

Jim clapped his hands with a loud noise, smiling as a child who was given free access to a candies store.

"That's brilliant. I'll see you in twenty-four hours Sebastian. Have a great day, my pet."

And as silently as he entered the room, James Moriarty was gone, leaving Sebastian with the need to find a victim in a city he didn't even know that well.

A crazy smile was beginning to grow on his face. If there was something Sebastian loved, was a good challenge.

000

Sebastian was silently watching the man he chose. He was totally unaware , living his life like every other day. Giving orders, leading his business from his office, watching the world from the panoramic window, not living in truth.

His round face was covered in a thin layer of sweat. His eyes too small for his face were empty, like if the young brunette kneeled between his legs wasn't even there. He was a pig, taking his pleasure, eating, and just observing others struggling to keep going.

A life like his was wasted and Sebastian was sure that his choice was a good one.

The time stopped around the sniper. It was like if nature itself kept its breath while Sebastian's finger slowly but firmly pressed the trigger. While the bullet ran silent and lethal to its target.

A mere moment and the man in the ugly suit and fat body collapsed on his desk. The time was still frozen.

Only the loud scream of the girl ruined that moment of imperfect perfection.

When Sebastian thought his task was done, his phone told him he got a new message, and that was beyond strange.

_We'll make things more interesting, pet. Give me 2 killings. See you in the morning. JM_

Sebastian cursed between his teeth. He liked to play dirty, but he had little time now, and to find a new victim who wasn't boring, following Moriarty's taste, wasn't easy.

The former colonel thanked his rotting father for the dirty mind he took from him. He already had a victim in mind. It could be a hazard, but everything was in his life. And after all he always knew he wasn't going to live until old age.

000

The restaurant was elegant, with the floor made in old, lucid wood and the chandeliers made of Italian crystal.

The tables were all occupied.

Business men with their wives, or mistresses. Nobles with their family, enjoying a late dinner after the Gala, or the Opera House, or whatever event was scheduled for the night.

Sebastian was wearing a dark Armani suit. He could have been one of the people returning home after the event if only he wasn't hidden in a dark alley, his gun ready to fire.

He took a moment to feel the weapon in his hand, like the first time, to calculate the distance once again, the impact against the glass of the window, how fast the bullet would run to its target.

Sebastian knew he didn't have much time. Once the glass was broken panic would start. He had only a possibility to hit his target, and disappear.

Sebastian took a moment to control his posture and his breathing. His heart was beating normally, like if he was walking in a park, his arm wasn't rigid and his mind was totally focused on his target.

His finger pulled the trigger and he watched the blond girl with the sapphire earrings collapse on her chair, a bullet hole between her eyes.

Sebastian knew he couldn't stay and enjoy his work, he had to disappear fast. He needed to come back to his room, and wait for Moriarty.

000

Sebastian took his time in the shower. The hot water helped to relax his muscles, and clean his mind from every thought. He was at peace with the light scent of his soap wrapping him sensually and the steam making the bathroom a place lost in time and space, where nothing could reach for him.

He wasn't happy when he had to leave the shower, but his skin was starting to look like a dried plum. He covered himself with a fluffy bathrobe and used a towel to dray his hair, it was like that when he arrived in the bedroom, and found James Moriarty waiting for him.

Sebastian stilled. Unsure of what to do even if that was his room.

Jim was sat at a coffee table, with a cup of tea in front of him, and the newspapers of the day. The front page was split between the news of the murder of Helga Von Trott and the news of the death of Maxwel Von Sedoff.

Jim's expression was unreadable.

"Explain colonel."

Sebastian moved to sit on the chair in front of Jim. This was his damn room, and if he was going to end up with a hole in his head he wanted at least to be comfortable.

"She ruined your suit, Sir."

Jim laughed, and Sebastian thought that maybe, just maybe, he was really happy in those small moments.

They didn't talk about the man, or why he was dead. They both knew.

Von Sedoff was trying to destroy Moriarty's power in Germany, to take his place, he was the one who paid Sebastian to kill the Russian politician in an attempt to shake things enough to take power for himself.

Sebastian couldn't let him live, even if it was too early to claim loyalty only to Moriarty. Jim wasn't ready for that yet, so the truth remained unspoken.

"Prepare your luggage Sebastian, we are going home."


	5. Chapter 5

V

_I still don't own them, I'm just torturing them, and playing wit them, because that's my way to show how much I love these characters. _

_And again, thanks to Pantherlily for her help. She's incredible. _

Sherlock was restless. His mind should have been focused on the false suicides, but something was wrong.

He couldn't banish the need to know where John was, what was he doing? Was he gone for good?

He sipped the still warm tea, it was strong and black, like he liked it, and it spoke of something that Sherlock never knew in his life. Home.

The consulting detective knew what was the right thing to do, throw the cup against the wall, and work, lose himself in the case and live his life like he always did, alone. Because to be alone was safe, but he couldn't let go of the cup and the hope that maybe John Watson was really going to come back.

000

John was nervous. He needed time to elaborate what happened to him in less than twenty four hours, and riding on a car close to miss "I'm made of ice" and the constant noise of her nails on the small buttons of her phone wasn't helping at all.

"Are you sure you want to come back doctor? You have no idea how hard is to deal with Sherlock Holmes."

The tone of disgust in her voice made John shiver with rage.

"I really don't think you have any right to talk about him, and above all that's none of your business. I'm old enough to know how to live my life, and for once I want to live it following my instinct. You should try it sometime, you could find out that to be a loyal little dog won't help you get what you want."

John was proud of himself when the woman lost the grip on her phone and it ended up at her feet. He looked at her with a calm and almost sweet smile on his face, and for the first time the woman saw why her employer had so much trust in that quiet and normal former army doctor. There was so much more in him that was shown.

000

The car stopped in front of 221B of Baker Street and the first thing John realised was the strange and ugly smile appearing on the woman's face.

The second thing was a police car standing too close to the door.

Two men and a woman came out of the car. The woman was the unpleasant one he faced only a few hours earlier, and one of the two men was the detective inspector. He didn't look happy to be there.

John couldn't hear everything they were saying, but he knew something was wrong. His suspicions were confirmed when he heard a fragment of the conversation.

"… Sir, I told you we couldn't trust him."

The woman was trying hard to remember she was talking to her boss, but she was glowering, John could say she was unhappy.

Whatever was going on Sherlock was in trouble, and he wasn't going to let that happen.

"Donovan, we still don't know. It was just an anonymous call, don't forget!"

Lestrade was furious. John wasn't as good as Sherlock to deduce things, but he could read people well enough to know that the man really was hoping that whatever the call said it was going to be a huge mistake.

"We'll see, Sir."

John was out of the car in a moment, totally forgetting his limp and his cane. He needed to be with Sherlock and see what was happening.

An ugly feeling in his stomach was telling him that the woman who was still smirking in the car was guilty for the call.

"I told you, doctor. Living with him will be hell."

John smirked at her. His warm blue eyes cold as ice for once.

"And I promise you, hurt him in any way, and I'll find the way to make you pay, dearly."

000

Sherlock was laying down on the couch, eyes closed, and his mind wondering about the cases and the army doctor who still wasn't back when he heard steps running to the stairs and Mrs Hudson's voice.

He knew the steps all too well. He was used to hearing them a lot in his darkest times, when drugs were his best friends and he was free to escape from a world that would have never understand his mind.

Rage woke in him. Really? Was Mycroft so pissed off that his plan was discovered so soon that he sent cops to search his house? The same cops he was trying to save from their own stupidity leading them to understand that the suicides weren't that, but highly planned murders?

His mind was racing so fast, looking for connections and answers he didn't ever really see them enter in his living room like they owned the place.

"Sherlock… someone called saying that you have drugs…"

Anderson and Donovan were already looking everywhere. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at the mortified detective inspector.

Like they could have been able to find anything if Sherlock hid that. He was going to tell Lestrade exactly that when the noise of something cracking broke the tense silence of the room.

Sherlock went off as a spring and was sat in a second, startling Lestrade. The usually pale detective was paler than a ghost while his eyes were locked to the broken bow.

"One can't ever be sure with you freak. You could hide drugs everywhere, and our informer was sure to remind us that."

Donovan was smiling coldly, holding Sherlock's violin and Lestrade was so shocked he was frozen. He always knew his men hated Sherlock for his mind, because he was always at least ten steps ahead of them all, and never tried to hide how little he thought about their intelligence. But he never knew they could have been so cruel giving them the possibility of revenge.

000

It was in that kind of horror movie that John stopped in the doorway, looking around.

The first thing the doctor saw was Sherlock's paleness, and the vulnerability in his gaze, and hoped that no one else was focused enough to see that.

He already knew that Sherlock would snap and bite if someone else realised he was wearing a mask to protect himself from the world.

"What the hell is happening here?"

He was looking at everything and no one in particular. His eyes already focused on the nearest treat, ready to take down everyone who would have dared to move a muscle.

And the funniest thing of all was that no one in the room thought about him as a menace. Lestrade was looking at him with pity in his eyes, probably sorry the man was going to see something horrible happen under his nose.

Sherlock was looking at him like he was a ghost or a dog with three heads, and the other two, John's real target didn't even know he was there, like he was a disturbing fly trying to ruin their fun.

"Look mate... now's not a good time… maybe you should come back later…"

If a gaze could kill Lestrade would have been a dead pile of ash after Sherlock looked at him with pure hate in his eyes.

How dare that stupid man try to throw John out? He was the only one with the right to do that. No one else had the right to try to push John away.

Lestrade looked embarrassed, like he wanted to be anywhere else but not there. Sadly John knew he was exactly where he should be right now.

"I think that's the perfect time for me to be here. And I'd like to know what's going on."

John's tone didn't admit any reply. He just demanded an answer, and Lestrade knew he had better give one fast.

He couldn't know the man in front of him, but he knew he was dangerous in his own way.

"These gentlemen are looking for drugs, doctor. Someone called them telling I stashed some in the house, as if I was so stupid, to let them find out."

John looked at him with calm eyes, asking him silently to keep talking to him. He had a feeling that was a very delicate moment for them. A turning point in what could be their beginning or their end.

"The freak there is…"

The woman couldn't finish her sentence before John turned on her as a fury. Lestrade was sure he was going to strike her and he couldn't let that happen.

He liked the man and he didn't want to be forced to arrest him.

Sherlock could read John's body as an open book. He knew the good doctor was totally gone to leave space to the soldier. A soldier ready to take down his enemy, and even he was surprised when the voice John used came out clear, without any trace of distress.

"That's the last time you talk when I'm not asking you something. Am I clear?"

A shiver ran through Sherlock's spine. John Watson was a man used to being listened to, was someone used to be in charge, and hold power. Maybe not like Mycroft or his friends, but definitively he was a dominant man, and he wasn't ready to bend his head only because he was talking to a police officer.

Sherlock didn't know what to think. His mind was numb for the first time in his life without any drugs in his system.

The only think he could think about was John's voice, and his body language.

He could keep you safe Sherlock. He could keep you in line and safe like you never felt in your whole life.

That wasn't the moment. He had other things to focus on right now, he couldn't let the voice to distract him all over again.

John's attention was on Sherlock again, and the detective felt his blue eyes burn a hole in his very soul.

"Tell me."

Sherlock never talked about his addiction to strangers, and even if a part of his mind was still screaming to shut up, that probably John knew about that part of his life because Mycroft told him, he started to tell the doctor about the years he spent hiding in hell holes, with needles in his arms, always craving something stronger, everything to stop his mind, or better to stop the world from being so numb and boring.

John listened to him with attention. Never, not even for a second Sherlock saw in his eyes what he always saw in other people's gaze; there wasn't pity in John's eyes, only understanding and rage. But for some strange reason Sherlock was sure the rage wasn't for him, but for what pushed him to find safety in a lie.

"Are you clean now?"

Sherlock just nodded.

"That's good. I won't tolerate any drug in the flat as long as I live here, and I won't tolerate any relapse on your part. If I find out you are doing drugs again, you won't be happy with my reaction, and I can assure you, Sherlock, that I'm not kidding here. You slip and I'll be there Sherlock, you fall and I'll be ready to help you on your feet again, but you go behind my back and try to play me tricks, you'll be so sorry, you'll regret the moment we started to share a house."

Everyone in the room was silent for a very long time.

Sherlock couldn't stop repeating John's words inside his head. He couldn't stop to read things behind those words, behind John's body language that spoke volumes of what his life could be if he only allowed himself to risk himself one more time.

"_Please, just think about that. Don't delete the information right now, just think about what you could have Sherlock."_

Lestrade wasn't sure what to make of the doctor's words. He knew the man spoke the truth and for a moment he was worried about Sherlock. Worried that this time he found someone who really was going to break him, and the detective wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a very bad one.

He was going to say something when he looked in Sherlock's eyes, and what he saw there froze him.

Sherlock looked captivated by that stranger who just claimed the right to be his flatmate. The potentially dangerous stranger that stepped in the mess created by an anonymous caller and defended Sherlock against a police officer without even knowing the man.

The Detective Inspector liked to think about himself as a man able to read people. Not even closely as smart as Sherlock of course, but since the first time he saw the self proclaimed consulting detective he had known that Sherlock was a man worth the effort to be saved from himself, and now, not for the first time when the genius was involved. He didn't know what to do.

A part of him wanted to grab the doctor and throw him out of the door and be sure he never was going to be close to Sherlock again, the other part wanted to step back and see what this man could do, and see if he really could give Sherlock that chance in happiness that no one ever gave him because of his mind.

"Listen doctor…"

John wasn't even showing any sign he heard the man talking. His focus was once again on the two officers.

"Let me try to understand something here. I know this man for less than a day, and I already know he's probably the most intelligent guy I'll ever meet in this lifetime, and you two are trying to make me believe he hid his drugs in a violin? Or are you just having fun hiding behind a power that doesn't give you any right to abuse a citizen? Because in my perspective that's exactly what you are doing, and you better don't believe, not even for a second, that I won't go to your direct superior if I think I have a reason to believe you are after Sherlock for no reasons at all. And let me tell you something else, if your mysterious informer happens to be a woman, I can suggest you to start investigate on her before to (Change 'to' to 'you') bother Sherlock again."

The two officers and Lestrade were speechless. They all believed John's words, and they never saw someone defend Sherlock before.

Not that Sherlock ever needed someone to defend him if not from himself, but all the same the two officers were shocked.

Torment the freak was something they liked to do, to show him his place when they couldn't do it with their minds, and now a perfectly normal looking guy treated them, all because (Add 'of') Sherlock Holmes?

But the most shocked of them all was Sherlock. He knew about who John was talking. But in his voice he couldn't read any indication that John knew Anthea before. All he could read was dislike, very close to hate in truth.

Going against the Yard was crazy, but going against Mycroft's most loyal and trusted guard was, in Sherlock's book, beyond simple insanity.

And still John looked really ready to sell her and even going after her.

A fond smile, even if so little only John could see it, and only because he was looking at Sherlock, formed on the detective's lips, and the doctor knew that small, fragile smile was for him and him alone, and he swore to everything holy he could name that he would have fought for that smile in every day of his life.

000

As soon as Sherlock felt the smile on his lips, it disappeared, and his mind started to focus again on the cases now that for the first time in his life someone else took his side when, for once, he did nothing wrong.

"I hope you don't mind the violin, I play it when I need to think, and that can happen at every hour of the day and night. And I don't talk much. I can be silent for a whole week and don't even realise that. I can't be bothered during a case with silly and boring things like eating and sleeping, and I'll forget about you sometimes, when I need space in my mind and I have to delete information. I make experiments in the kitchen to prove my theories and solve cases."

John smiled a little. So that was the man he decided to live with? He could put something more on the table, just to clean the air between them.

If Sherlock thought to scare him he was wrong.

"Oh well, I have PTS, and nightmares. I'll scream in the night and I won't be able to stop so, sorry if I'll wake you up, give you heart attacks or ruin one or more experiments."

Lestrade thought for a moment he was in the middle of a Twilight Zone episodes, and wasn't surprised at all when not Sherlock or John realised they were shutting the door behind them.

"If you betray me, doctor, and I'm not sure yet, you are not up exactly to that, I'll make sure no one will ever be able to find you, ever again."

John could say that Sherlock was speaking the truth, but he wasn't scared. He knew he was in the right, and he just needed time to show the detective who he really was.

For the first time in almost his whole life John Watson felt like if (Remove 'if') he was finally home, finally in the place where he was meant to be.

"Talking about people ready to make someone disappear. Do you know many men who love to call themselves your archenemies?"

Sherlock suddenly paled.

"Only one, and for now I can't think about him. He's not important now. And I would like for you not to mention him again until the case I'm working on will be over."

John knew he pushed a sore button, but he didn't know what to do. If Sherlock didn't want to talk about then he couldn't force him.

It was too early in that strange turn their lives just took, so John decided to just sit for a moment, watching Sherlock lock himself somewhere, using that time to think about what just happened to him in a few hours.

When Sherlock came back to himself he scared John with his exclamation.

"You are a doctor right? An army doctor, used to violence and to the death."

John just nodded, he wasn't sure where Sherlock wanted to go with his questions.

"Are you any good?"

Now John's pride was something he really cared about, so that question almost hurt his feelings, but again he just nodded.

"More than good."

Sherlock smirked as a huge cat that finally found something interesting to play with.

"Do you want to see more death, doctor?"

"Oh hell, yes."

John surprised himself with his reaction, but he really missed the action and the adrenaline the war gave him for years. And above all he missed to feel useful.

"Where are we going exactly?"

"We are going to show the incompetents at the Yard that there is a plan behind what they keep calling suicides."

John liked the sound of that, even if he knew the right reaction should have been one of disgust and fear.

He really didn't care about normal anymore. So he gladly followed Sherlock not giving a damn about every warning he was given all day.

He already decided he would have never let go the chance to live again, not just surviving.


End file.
